


breathe.

by thesisean



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, breathe lmao, he needs to start again but with ppl lost and gained, lowercase intended, november sixteenth, the finale, tubbo’s third person pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27604361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesisean/pseuds/thesisean
Summary: he lays a hand on tommy’s shoulder. “it’s okay. i’m still here, y’know?”tommy laughs. “yeah.”after the final war, the final battle.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Toby Smith | Tubbo, No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Everyone, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Phil Watson, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot
Kudos: 76





	breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired 👍

november sixteenth.

_‘the beginning. not the end, the beginning of more things to come.’_ whispered soft, teasingly but not, tickling his ears, making his eyes flutter shut in the cool air after the smoke and debris had settled. the aftermath of the strike of a button, a proud and senile loud laugh.

he is the president. (the new president) the president, if techno allows it begrudgingly (he doesn’t think he ever will), of destroyed remains of a festival that haunts his dreams with colourful fireworks and yellow cement and those who have stuck with him for so long.

wilbur was the traitor. so was techno, but techno never was on their side.

techno was always an anarchist, the way he leant towards chaos rather than civilised government matters (just like the man with the mask, the man with emotions and expressions hidden oh so well from sight, only for the closest to admire. he doesn’t think that even the ex-candidate with tinted goggles has even seen the man’s face, to be honest).

wilbur, wilbur, president wilbur. _his_ president from the very beginning, from the moment he declared a revolution so that he could sell drugs of all things in a land that didn’t ban them. proud, confident, asshole wilbur soot. he doesn’t know when he’d started to spiral down to mental depths unknown, or when he’d set his stubborn mind to push the button. to become more and more skittish of his loyalest allies, to retract more into a bloodthirsty mindset. he thinks he should’ve done something, maybe. something to convince him to take the redstone down, remove the seven hundred something tnt pieces stashed throughout l’manburg together.

he struggles to breathe, struggles to tilt his head up, like he’s drowning in nothing.

he’s thankful for quackity, fundy, karl and phil’s companionship right after the dust had settled. he’s so happy that phil’s finally here, finally here after so long of pining for dream to snap his fingers and suck phil to the land of the dream smp. he’s oddly happy about connor’s confused arrival as he overlooks the destruction of the final war against schlatt (and wilbur and dream and techno), and the promise of captain puffy landing somewhere in the lands and joining their small population.

(he nearly forgets about _wilbur soot was slain by philza._ he follows the man’s figure with his eyes, bucket hat, flowing face-length hair. a strong player, he knows from when they met in smp earth. how does he feel, killing his son? he thinks he hears a whisper of _‘my son’_ from the past, stretching from where the lone button was contained. wilbur’s gone. but not as gone as any of them thinks)

everyone’s gone, the remains of l’manburg haunting, gaping with craters from the withers and the button. everyone’s staying temporarily at the community house, or in the holy land. dream’s probably lent them all beds and sleeping bags. he’s not ready to turn in for the day quite yet.

he slides down, hanging over the biggest crater, the one where the stage podium used to stand proudly. he dangles his legs over the emptiness below. his hands dig into stone dust and dirt. the cold wind blows, but he doesn’t shiver.

“hey, big t.” a lankier figure slides next to him, red and white shirt. he smiles widely.

“tommy!”

“how’re ya holdin’ up, big man?” tommy asks. he wonders where he’d gone after the withers were defeated and when everyone was piled in an exhausted heap.

“alright! you?” he says, just for the conversation to continue.

“eh. could be better.” tommy shrugs. better than anyone could have asked for.

they sit for a bit, dangling jean-covered legs next to short beige pants.

“i miss wilbur.” tommy says suddenly.

“me too.”

“is he never coming back? is jschlatt never coming back?”

he looks into wide blue eyes. “i don’t know.” it’s earnest.

tommy laughs, the unnecessarily explosive one that he’s grown to love since they’d met so long ago, on another world (hypixel). they’d fallen through portals together, sometimes doing their own thing but travelling to smp earth together at last, and then here. the dream smp.

“i mean, i’ve known schlatt and wilbur for so long, i just—“ tommy pauses, swallows audibly. “i’ve known them since smp live days, tubbo. i guess they’re finally— finally never gonna come back. i cant _believe_ —

“i can’t believe phil killed wil, anyway. i can’t believe schlatt died from a heart attack.”

he lays a hand on tommy’s shoulder. “it’s okay. i’m still here, y’know?”

tommy laughs. “yeah.”

“i wish wilbur didn’t press the button.” he tells tommy.

“he wanted to, no matter what. a promise to the green bastard, y’know— why would he break it if he wanted it too?”

“that’s true.”

he looks down, swinging small feet, a soothing rhythm.

“it’s been months since we arrived here, tommy— nearly five months.” he laughs. “where did the time go?”

tommy laughs with him, eyes crinkling that beautiful way that really tells that he’s truly delighted. “starting wars and stabbing shit, obviously.”

“do you miss the first war? the first act? when we all were simply divided into dream smp and l’manburg?” he asks.

“yeah, but right now? it’s good, too. we’ve lost, but we’ve won more than lost.” a bright smile. he’s reminded of why he admires tommy so much. he doesn’t get why some people don’t like this responsible funny kid.

“will it ever be the same, tommy?”

tommy looks at him. the cool drafts of air move and sway, tug at the messy strands of strawberry blond that stick out as chaotically as his personality. the red bandana he’s given him so long ago, to match the green one he has circled around his small wrist, is wrapped and knotted securely around tommy’s neck, bearing only the faintest of burns and tears. he looks brave. strong, respectable. he wants to be like him someday.

“if we have our friends, our l’manburg, don’t you think we’ll still have it all? you, me, fundy, niki, thunder, maybe even eret, karl, skeppy, quackity, antfrost, punz, or even dream and techno and the others— don’t you think that’s already more than we can ask for?”

he sees the light that shines bright as a star in the depths of tommy’s blue irises, the way he physically glows with hope, with anticipation for the unforeseeable future. (maybe it’s foreseeable after all)

“yeah, you’re so right, tommy. you’re so right.” he says, and he hopes tommy can hear how genuine he is.

he’s right, it is enough. for now. he hears the faintest good-natured chuckle from eret, the small sounds of delight from niki as she stares down mushroom the fox tickle his ear and snake past it. he listens to the softest laugh from dream, uttered spanish words strung together in a melodic symphony from big q’s lips, excitable gasps that radiate excitable energy from karl. he maybe hears the laughter from phil as he chats with techno, hears the almost childlike delight layered below monotoned vocals from the blade. he thinks he hears wilbur’s proud messages to him and tommy _(i’m so proud of you, of both of you)_ and schlatt’s proclamations of tommy’s childhood, humour unprecedented.

he smiles, just slightly, just a little, because he’s breathing now, he can _breathe_ now, gasp in lungfuls of air like a duet with those noises from people considered mutually as friends, a quiet harmony as the sun sets on the ruins of l’manburg. he feels, aware physically of the other people on this land that he cares for, feel them with fingers pressed flush against the stone of the ground he’s dangling off, feels them through the thrums and hums of the stone, so far away yet near as can be.

it’s cold, but he feels like a lit fire he didn’t start as though it always had been burning (since the world was turning). he breathes the fire, breathes for his friends and rivals and everything in between, breathes for tommy (breathing softly and sweetly beside him, leaning slightly as tommy descends into the realm of sleep), and breathes for himself. he _breathes_. it feels warm against the coolness of the darkening surroundings.

tommy’s right. it is enough. enough for all of them. they’ll rebuild together (secretly under his leadership so that techno doesn’t start a new revolution against the government), commemorate the losses and gains they’ve had for the past five months, appreciate the history the land of l’manburg and the rest of the dream smp has.

(the blown-up van is gone. maybe the original declaration of independence too. and the song _‘my l’manburg’_? without wilbur, who’s going to remember it? who’s going to remember everything wilbur has done for l’manburg? who’s going to remember schlatt’s temporary leadership and drastic changes under his rule? who’s going to remember the tightest friendships on the server?)

they will. they all will, no matter how uninvolved they were. they’ll remind and pick each other up if they need to, get everyone back on their feet, standing for the anthem of l’manburg. he’ll _sing_ it, sing it out loud, sing for the history, the joy, the regret, the nostalgia, the bittersweetness of the first ending of their story.

_‘it isn’t the end. it’s just the beginning,’_ dream tells them both. he knows. he’s ready for it, angled right and in a fighting stance.

he wraps a hand around tommy’s waist as tommy snores softly, eyes shut lightly, head lolling onto his shoulder. his eyes flutter shut as he brings his head to sit gently on tommy’s, their respective heights making it uncomfortable, but in a way, he thinks that it’s so _right._

_thank you_ , he casts a grateful message to the heavens, sucking in a breath, heaving lightly with steady breaths. _for this life i lead. for the friends i’ve met on the way._

_november sixteenth._ he rolls the words in his head, feels the curves and edges of the imagined numbers.

_one one one six. one one one six._ he’s never been happier.


End file.
